


Rituals

by novoentrudo



Category: Deadly Premonition | Red Seeds Profile
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Crossdressing, Homophobic Language, M/M, One-Sided Attraction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-21
Updated: 2014-08-21
Packaged: 2018-02-14 03:18:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2176074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novoentrudo/pseuds/novoentrudo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A snapshot into George and Thomas's private life, set before the events of the game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rituals

**Author's Note:**

> Just a small PWP smut fic, set in a timeline with numerous deviations from canon (in both setting and narrative); the main one which you will notice here, though, is the presence of a large canopy bed inside the Galaxy of Terror basement.
> 
> Warnings for explicit sex, homophobic and degrading language, glorification of abusive relationships, and mentions of violence.

The curtains frame the bed, and seem to give it angel wings that drape down off the canopy. It makes it feel like some red chariot quite ready to be carried off by cherub's pulls, unbound to any mortal world. And that's where Thomas lays, his red dress pooling as would blood into the red sheets, and his pale body seems to float half-ghostly on the satin. Up above this room, he was something awkward and bony, all angles and clumsiness never outgrown, but here, in the dim light, that's not him at all. That has to be someone else.

Right now, when he closes his eyes, he swears he can hear music. His head turns to the side, and he feels his heartbeat, so warm inside his chest. He waits.

The bar is closed, his sister back at home. Thomas never asks what George does up there in the space after the front doors lock and before he joins him down below, but the younger man still gives him his alone time, all the same.

_It's nice like this_ , he thinks to himself. He feels more like himself in these calm moments, before his man arrives — days are busy, frantic matters, and it's only now when he feels he's part of the "real world" after all. On the surface world, he's always blended in with background scenery, never the type to speak up or make his presence felt beyond a helpful constancy. But down here, he's desired, he's craved, or so he lets himself believe, and that's all that matters. He can't see it, but he knows it's there — the blush on his cheeks, the lipstick on his lips. And all the years have cemented inclinations once made of honey into crystal, and so he's fervent in all this. This is the self that no one else sees — this is his real self, he decides. It has to be.

He almost could slip into dreams right then and there, and he has many; some of wood ships far from harbor, others of a black-floored lounge, places lost in other lives or other selves, or similar such distanced echoes. He doesn't dwell upon it all too much and hums, instead, the faintest notes of a song that's been in his head since morning. _Pennies from Heaven_ , Billie Holiday.

The door opens, and Thomas feels his heart clench up in anticipation. It's so soon now.

"I've been waiting for you, sir." He says. The obedience seems to drip right off his tongue, and if the sentiment behind his words were turned to action then-and-there, then he'd be something drooling, manic for the fill. His eyes open just a crack. Just enough to see his man, who's shed the leather jacket and the button-down and has stripped himself to the white wife beater worn underneath. George has left the cowboy hat upstairs, and though Thomas misses the way it makes him look some sort of western star, all John Wayne through and through, he much prefers this unguarded side, and being one step closer to nothing altogether. George's boots first click cold against the stone floor, then become silent as he reaches the carpeted center of the room.

Thomas closes his eyes again. His heart is racing. He feels so unsure of just what he's in for. Sometimes, George could be so tender — and makes the thinner man all-but-sing, bites him in the warmest ways, and draws out breaths of love poems from his gasps. Other times, he could be so cruel. Cruel words. Disdain, not to mention: the choking, the clawing, the slaps and punches. But Thomas can always endure. He's different. Special, he reminds himself.

The younger man hears those blue jeans unzip, and hears George's boots slip off, in turn. As George places his knee on the bed, Thomas opens his eyes, just enough to see that the sheriff is still wearing his pants, but that his cock is now out, erect and thick in the night air. The older man starts to crawl over to and over Thomas, like some mountain beast, and Thomas feels the mattress shift beneath George's weight. It pulls Thomas's own thinner body just slightly closer to the weight of George's knee, or the spot where the sheriff's hand makes a deep impression just near his side. He shivers.

-

George says nothing. Just lets out a long growl, almost inaudible, and then, a low sort of inhalation, like a predator taking in the scent of his prey before the chase. He places his hands upon Thomas's hips, and lifts him easily, snaking his hands around to squeeze at the man's ass. It's narrow, un-voluptuous, but has a certain youthful curve to it, and in the dark, George almost finds himself enjoying it. He'd always been the type to enjoy things, though, for their deeper levels — attracted more to Thomas for the rush that it gave to him, in turn. The way he feels so powerful to get inside the man's head with such a calloused ease — it's a thrill like nothing else.

George takes his hands off Thomas's ass and leans over to press his weight in full upon the younger man, hands on his wrists, one knee beneath his legs, and hot breath dancing in the space between the sheriff's teeth and his assistant's neck.

Thomas, as George expected, does not resist or even squirm at all, a tame animal even as George brings his hand up to dig his fingernails into the spot on Thomas's neck that his shirt collars keep hidden during the day. A few weak scratches, just enough to leave pink-red marks. But then he keeps his hand there, as though debating whether to choke out his assistant for the night and make use of his limp body, but he settles for one last claw-stroke down — and this is finally enough to make Thomas wince at last — before he pushes him into the sheets with a crude carelessness.

_You don't even try to fight me_. George thinks. _Weak_.

And then he lays on his side, his face a look of boredom and disdain, which his assistant, eyes closed and glasses off, remained blissfully blind to. George yanks Thomas's dress up to expose his pale thigh, then pulls it higher, revealing the other man's cock. Some days Thomas wore undergarments to match the dress and shoes — but not tonight, _the little slut_ , George thinks.

Thomas's cock is slightly bigger than George, and the sheriff hisses, a sudden sound, and brings his hand down on it, hard — squeezes, and makes the smaller man whimper, but George lifts his hand soon enough and places it on the younger man's face.

"You're so good…" George lets out his words as a quiet rumble and places his thumb upon Thomas's lips. The assistant wastes no time in taking that thumb in his mouth, letting his tongue lap at the print to lick up all the salt and dirt from the older man's long day.

_You're pathetic. I could do anything to you, and you'd lap it right up, wouldn't you?_ George smirks, and Thomas still seems to be in his own world. Tonight, he doesn't feel like taking it too slow, and so, grabs a tube of lube from its ever-spot in his back jeans pocket (for who knows when the need might strike, and one nice thing about Thomas has always been his availability) and squirts a drop out on his dick, spreading it with a few firm strokes. Now he feels just slick enough, so he readies himself into the position that he wants, Thomas's legs spread and facing upward, ass exposed. With the other man's dress hiked up like that, George holds the base of his own cock and pushes forward, sliding inside like a glove. Thomas isn't quite as tight as he was when this first started, a thought that both disgusts George and en-prides him, but it's still tight all the same, and it's less painful for him nowadays, anyway, which is what matters.

It's always difficult at first, and Thomas is whimpering now, his erection subsiding a bit at the pain of George's entry. _Good_. George thinks, but he holds the man's hips with a vague tenderness as he pushes all the way in and gets to work. Perhaps he's a bit faster than he should be, but it's not like Thomas has any basis for comparison.

-

It's not like Thomas has any basis for comparison at all, and so he figures that it's normal that these encounters leave him bruised and aching, and he knows already that this one will, too — the sheriff is picking up pace now, and it hurts, but at the same time, it hits his prostate and makes him whimper like a bitch, too. _I'm his_ … he thinks, and part of him really wants it to be brutal, loves the way it feels when George's hand is on his throat and his own breaths come each more ragged than the last. Loves that certain thrill he gets when the sheriff calls him a worthless faggot, but at least he's George's worthless faggot, and he can't explain it, why it always makes him crawl right back, but it does, and now his eyes roll back in his head as he gets so thoroughly fucked.

The pain now doesn't seem so bad, and he feels his cock stiffen in response. It's such an awkward and ungainly thing, but he loves the way it feels when George's rough hands stroke it; tonight, he knows that's off the table, though, and he doesn't even reach for it, himself, too content to ride the waves of pleasure that course up through him with George's every rough push. The lube makes it nice and slick, makes any barrier between them seem only some foolish thing of flesh and blood but nothing more than that, and now, Thomas wants only to serve him, to be ripped apart and rebuilt each night in full. He wraps his legs around George's body, does what he can to draw him close. The sheriff's having none of that romance, however, and he digs his nails into Thomas's thigh this time, and Thomas thinks that he smells blood, but it's hard to say, and in the dark, George's face looks like such a cru-el scowl that it almost makes him shiver. So he closes his eyes, and he's once again someplace dark, only this time that black reverie is pierced with something deep and red that grows firmer in time with each thrust.

This all continues for a while, and the hushed sounds of George's breaths and Thomas's whimpering fills the room. The younger man is starting to sweat now, and his black hair clings to his forehead, but he doesn't feel that, no, he only allows himself to focus on that cock deep inside of him, and it takes every bit of concentration he has to feel only the pleasure and let the pain flow past him, unacknowledged.

And with a loud groan, George comes inside him; shoots his load deep in there, and that salty stuff, it makes the soreness of the young man's innards sting, but he's grateful to have it, and now his hand's on his own cock, and-

-

_Don't you dare_. George thinks as he leans down, doesn't pull out, because the energy's still in him. He may have come (and what a nice load it was, and it's nice knowing it's so far up that other man's ass — makes him feel like he's done something filthy and perfect for that weakling, too), but that's done little to subside (and perhaps made more ferocious) a fiery sort of bloodlust, one that rushes up his veins and down his arms and now he can't help it, he barely even notices as his hand wraps around his assistant's neck-

-

_No_ , Thomas's eyes seem to say. It's there — that certain feeling that George sometimes gets behind the eyes, and it's frightening to him, truly so, and of all the things that Thomas denies, this is the thing that he denies the most. So he closes his own eyes even as his breaths grow short, and even as he sees a static creeping in the edges of the darkness, all he thinks is how much he loves him, but even that's not quite enough to cling to, and he wants to fall deep into that blackness and never wake up again.

-

Thomas's body is limp by the time that George pulls out and away. Thomas isn't knocked out — the sheriff can see it in his breaths — but he is out of his mind, George can still see that much, and that's good enough for him right now. He lets his eyes linger on the mascara that drips down in tear-streams down the other man's cheeks, but sees nothing deeper. Whatever thoughts go on inside that twisted head remain unfathomable to him. He's seen some hints, of course, in Thomas's words of devotion, whispered in his ear as he straddles George's lap and lets slim-fingered, red-nailed hands drape down across that broad, scarred back, and George likes that kind of worship, but he doesn't care to know much more than that.

As Thomas lays like this, though, with his head to the side and his body limp, he looks so vulnerable, disgustingly so, George thinks. He has none of that red sort of energy that makes him such a perfect bitch, and now, all George sees is that same awkwardness and nervousness that by day gives Thomas such a weak and timid demeanor. So George turns him over, just to see the tattoo upon his shoulder, and Thomas lets out a small grumble, but does not open his eyes. And even the sight of that heart does nothing for him on such a bony frame.

_Pathetic_. George thinks again.

He uses the bed sheets to clean his cock, then slips it back into his jeans. Thomas will get up eventually, that much is clear — but for now, he's served his purpose, and now, George's own night needs a different kind of rush. The woods are still a vibrant creature, and from the sounds from far above, it's just begun to rain.

-

Two hours pass before Thomas really wakes up. His makeup's smeared, and as he pulls himself up, he feels nothing but shame at this dress and the high heels that he's long since kicked off onto the red sheets. He knows he needs to go back home, although his apartment feels even smaller than this curtained room, and on nights like this, feels colder, too. His ass still aches and he's embarrassed that he's already looking forward to the next time, and not only that, but he wants it to be harder, wants it to be meaner, wants to prove this to himself, if nothing else.

He needs to get himself cleaned up, to take off the dress and make sure there are no rips or stains, for he does take care of this guise even despite it all. And he'll need to take a shower, too, for he still has work tomorrow, and he can't show up with makeup traces 'round his eyes.

There's a brief instant where he feels like he's about to cry, and something does well up inside his heart and almost threaten to spill out, and his hands raise to his face. He bites the side of one, and his teeth rest in the spot between his first and second knuckle. It's not hard enough to hurt, but it keeps him grounded for a second. His breaths, they then grow slower once more, turning that rush inside him back to something cold and faraway. He tells himself he's not that red-dressed figure, not inside. Those things happen to someone else. They have to.

And when as he notices the sound of the rain pouring down hard, he closes his eyes and laughs a weakened laugh, and none of it he cares about at all.


End file.
